


Paul, that pussy

by lover_of_blue_roses



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Appreciating George!, Appreciating his caring heart and talented songwriting goddamn it, Cat Shenanigan, Gen, Sharing an umbrella, Turned Invisible, Witchcraft, oblivious Paul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lover_of_blue_roses/pseuds/lover_of_blue_roses
Summary: Paul has a run-in with a crazy fan that leaves him needing help, good thing he's close to George's house then.
Relationships: George Harrison & Paul McCartney, preslash if you want
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Paul, that pussy

Paul's night had been like thousand other's at this point. He'd spotted a girl, she wasn't the prettiest or the flashiest, but he could already tell he was going to like her attitude. Confident and cocky with a little bit, there was a reason George and John was always him about picking birds that were like just like Lennon. He just saw her and knew he had to have her.

So once they'd made into the relative safety of the studio lobby, no longer pressed on all sides by the hordes, he turned to Neil. It was common whenever they were on tour to have Neil go discreetly pick one and, generally with good ol' Alistar Mr. Fix-It find some way to smuggle them in to be the evening's entertainment.

He'd clearly just been thinking with his cock, but that wasn't new and there was nothing to suspect about her, just another bird like all the rest. And that night, he truly did enjoy himself as usual, but something was wrong when he woke up. He felt satated after enjoy more than just a night's rest, but when he rolled over to get up he saw it. 

Because of the bird gates that were permanently parked in front of his house, he'd found it best to be crashing at hers. Best not to have the press take her picture and plaster it everywhere. Not only would she get harassment from the press about who she was to him, the fans would also be vicious blighters. And he hadn't seen last night, they hadn't bothered to turn on the overhead light, just the one on the nightstand. Of course at that point they were on the bed and Paul had better things to look at than the decor. 

Covering the whole wall of her bedroom was a dedicating to the occult. An altar with candles, crystals, leather bound books, herds and animal remains. The eye socket of a fox skull in fact seemed to be staring him down, as though it could see him. What a freaky scene. He does his best not to focus on that, lest he jinx himself. Best not to think about messing with any of that stuff.

Still as he slowly got up, careful not to shift the mattress to much, not wanting to wake her, he headed to look. The book that was open, the spell book, reclaimed to have a 'Binding for Love.' Oh fuck, what had Paul done now? Had she- had she already done, whatever this binding was? He didn't feel like he was bewitched but as a non-believer he wasn't even sure what he might be looking for. 

His memories weren't foggy like he'd been high or drunk, no they were crystal clear, he must have stayed as sober as he came. And no where in his memories did she do anything- well unusual, and especially no spell casting. Had her spell been why Paul was drawn to her in the first place? He didn't feel changed. 

He had acted very much as himself. He'd been wetting his dick in birds from Cali to Dover, and honestly this felt no different. There was no reason he wouldn't have picked her out of the crowd without a spell. He was far too spoiled for choice. Pretty, just his type, maybe her confident came from the spell that would keep him rather that get him, and their sex was decent if nothing wild. 

He doesn't know how to feel. He didn't feel violated but maybe it just hadn't sunken in, or maybe it's just because for literal years the fans have been tearing him like he was a possession they wanted, so this wasn't really groundbreaking. The fans wanted him and would go any length to make it happen. At least this time they weren't hurting themselves or each other, just maybe him. Fuck, how had this become his life? This just actually just kind of felt same-old, same-old. God best he never tell Mickey about this, he'd fucking laugh right in his face. Beatle Paulie gets a love spell cast on him and his only response is to sigh, disappointed but not surprised. 

While it is still possible the spell could kick in later, if it had a hold of him last night it felt.. no real different than trying out a new drug with unknown consequences. It just felt so commonplace, like if his will had been possessed long enough to wash his teeth. Maybe being bound by a witch was just a byproduct of him living his life as a celebrity. 

His clothes are where he left them thrown on the ground, quickly he dresses thinking it best not to linger any longer. Without looking back he heads out, stopping only right by her door where a mirror hangs above a coat rack. Don't need to give the press more material. He checks his hair, doing the best without a comb to fix his bed head and making sure it's all there. It's still wack to consider how big it's gotten, not just them but their haircuts! However unlike Ringo, Paul doesn't seem to have any snipped off. If he didn't feel comfortable with a regular bird having some, he certainly didn't want a witch to. 

He's all ready to leave, hand on the door knob when she approaches from behind, her face appearing in the mirror and her voice calling out, "No, wait please James Paul."

What the fuck, who the hell calls him that? He doesn't want to say anything, he wants to run away into the night- er day, and pretend none of this ever happened, but he naturally pauses because he isn't in the habit of being a dick to his company. Too late he almost regrets it, but if she could charm him in a crowd best he not leave as enemy's or else next time her magic might be violent. Or maybe from this close up she can do even more damage, but then surely she would have done that last night?

"Please, please," she reaches out, laying a hand over his chest that he desperately wants to remove from his person. "Don't leave me, stay, stay here, stay with me," she coos, repeating herself almost as if chanting or maybe Paul's just paranoid from really being drugged, either way he's got to leave.

"That's sweet doll, but I've got to go the band needs me," it's true enough, where would his boys be without him, especially when it came time to buckle down and bang it out in the studio. Not to mention, John and he hadn't even finished writing.

"No, no, no," Paul unfortunately can recognize the crazed look in her eyes from the countless fans, he's not even a person to them when they are like this, just lost to the frenzy that comes with fame. He frees himself of her person and races out her door. It's no good going to the lift so he makes for the stairs, jumping down as fast as he can as she screams after him. Again unfortunately he has experience with this. 

He's doing well, gaining speed and distance from her, when so close to escape, he trips on the landing, falling all the way down. He's dazed but not hurt, not too bad, he scrambles to his feet and emerges outside, but when he looks back she isn't chasing after him. No she is doing something far worse, she is kneeling where he scraped his hand, touching his blood and her words echo in his soul, "If I can't have him no one can."

Paul doesn't know what happens after that, he loses his footing and when he reaches out to catch himself on his hands, they're not there, his empty suit sleeve dangling in the air as they fall. With the weight of his body, the fall is completely different, and Paul just lies there, face first on the pavement for a moment more simply bewildered by how any of this is his life. 

He slowly gets back up and looks at himself, he's transparent and if he doesn't focus on seeing himself he can't. He's completely naked, feeling the air on his exposed skin but when he reaches out for his hands he just passes right through, what is he a ghost? 

Deciding to abandon his clothes less the witch come after him, he wanders. He's not completely sure where in London he is and it takes him a while to find his bearings. Mostly because he's so- off put with being starkers. Wandering the streets without so much as socks on feels very weird, and the wind is just- really everywhere. It was really picking up, probably another dumb day of dumb London weather, he could only imagine how rain would affect his body-less self. He also feels like a pervert and rather desperately hopes her spell or curse or whatever doesn't wear off immediately.

He does eventually figure out where he is just by stumbling upon a metro. He doesn't know anything in this part of the city. Or does he? He thinks about it as he walks, aimlessly but then he realises where he is faintly from the car rides. He's no more than thirty minutes from Geo's. He's a little embarrassed it took him that long to realize but honestly, in his defense he basically never came over. 

Geo and he didn't spend that much time together since they made it big, especially compare to times in Hamburg when they were living out of each other's pockets. And when they did George would be the one to ring him up and come down to see him. But Paul was pretty sure he knew where it was, if anything the hordes of teenage girls would be a good clue. That would be the worse time to turn solid, they've only seen him in his suits, they would eat him alive for a little skin let alone all of it. 

As it grows later, it must have been what? Maybe 6 when he'd left that bird's place, the sun just peaking, but now that it was getting good and proper day time the people were starting to come out. Which meant, much to his horror, that people were filling the streets and-- walking right through him. It felt so strange and was even weirder to see, but he just held back his whimpers, not that it mattered, no one could hear him. It just felt so slimy and awful, he considered seriously leaving the sidewalk for the street. 

Probably though the cars would feel no better and if he 'rematerialized' and got hit-- damn John would never get over that. Not to mention of course that Paul didn't want to die. He wanted to live to the ripe age of 64 and die from making sweet passionate love a little too vigorously for his old fragile heart. Argh, still- the people going through him was downright awful. Couldn't he get a teeth cleaning instead? Break a nail? Pass a kidney stone? 

The sky was really growing dark despite the rising of the sun and judging by how heavy it felt, they were due for a good shower soon. He had to get inside before then, if people felt bad, he can only imagine how terrible hundreds of individual droplets falling everywhere onto him would feel. 

Thankfully, he did eventually make it although God only knows what George could actually do to help. He paused when he turned onto the street. Even this early in the morning the girls where swarming like flies to get something, anything more from them. Argh, fuck that too, Paul decided that he didn't remotely want to deal with that even if invisible. Especially if he all of a sudden wasn't. Maybe that was the witches curse, see him torn apart by rabid preteens. 

Rather than approach from the front entrance, Paul continued along George's property trailing the wall. He didn't know what he was going to do, was he going to try and scale the wall or could he pass right through it as he did people? He wasn't sure he could because something- some force was keeping his feet from sinking in and dragging him down to the center of the earth. He could try but then what? If he could pass through the wall, he'd be just as invisible, only on the other side. It was still no closer to lifting this curse. 

He really didn't know what he was going to do. There's a stack of large bins, overflowing with rubbish that spills out into the street. Maybe the collectors are on strike again. He sees something amidst the mess and despite the putrid smells goes to investigate. There's an abandoned kitten with dirty, matted dusty grey-black fur. It doesn't seem to be alive, unmoving and lying there limply, still if anything can be done to help Paul will do it. Without thinking he reached out to touch it, however this time, he did not pass right through it. 

Chapter 2

It was odd, that's for sure. Everything about this morning has been odd but at least he's not a ghost anymore, even if he doesn't have his body back. He looks up, and up and up. The wall now towers over him, maybe this wasn't the best idea? What if he can't get up? Or can't get out of this body?

Paul takes a hesitant step, walking on all fours is weird and he is clumsy, but he does figure it out easily enough to come up to George's wall. While the scent of rubbish remains just as unpleasant, it's not actually overwhelming his senses like he might fear. His brain can easily enough adjust to the stimuli which is good for what comes next. 

He doesn't think even if he were in the body of a full grown cat that he would be able to jump this fence because of how tall it is, but especially not with how clumsy and awkward he is in it. No with his inexperience and kitty size body, it's best to use the bins to get high up. He easily jumps up from the ground, to the bin's lip careful not to fall in. The rubbish smells worse when right on top of it, but nothing too terrible. Like seeing someone dressed in bright yellow might sting the eyes. 

And of course, the best way to deal with it, is to escape. He continues his trek over Geo's wall, finally coming to the peak of the trash pile, the bricks still a good few feet higher. As crazy as it seems, as his vision tells him this is, he really thinks he can do it. With a running start, he gives it everything he's got.

Which as it turns out is the problem, sure he manages to clear the wall, only problem is that and then some as he sails right across it, crash landing on the other side. The good news is the body's muscle memory is there and it's true, cats land on their feet. The landing is- well it's not pleasant but he knows if he was human he would at least come away with a sprained ankle. 

He wobbles away, careful to navigate the trash that is piled up here. Nothing dirty, just bigger items that can't fit in the bin and are to be brought out to the skip. Still, with all the racket his tiny body made coming over he's not surprised by the approaching security guard. Maybe that's why Geo keeps this junk here, not because he hasn't had it taken out yet, but to serve like wind chimes alerting him lest any girl think to break in. 

The guard approaches, fumbling at his belt for his torch. Even though it should be around 8 or 9 in the morning, the dark storm clouds make it nearly as dark as nighttime. He flashes a torch over Paul who meows in greeting, sees its just a cat and turns around. Well then- that wasn't very nice what if Paul had been hurt by that feat of acrobatics. He wasn't but that's not the point.

Paul just sits there, indignant and... maybe a little lost. He's made it to Geo's house but now what? Find a way to communicate with their guitarist in hope that he knows a good witch? He's happy not to be a ghost anymore, at least with this body he can affect the physical realm, even if he doesn't have thumbs. 

He looks down at his dusky fur and bends his wrists, it's better than nothing but- but then what? If he can't figure this out, he'll have to find a human body? The idea is terrible and morbid even if he just finds one at a morgue rather than create one. He thinks he'd much rather live a lifetime as a ghost than become a murderer. 

"YR-eow!!" Paul screams! Fuck, fuck, the fuck was that! Horrible, horrible, get it off, get if off! He shook himself like a man-cat possessed, it was so unspeakably unpleasantly disgusting. His skin- he doesn't even know what the fuck that was or how to begin describing it. Is this some terrible consequence of the spell, or having entered this body? And then it happens again.

Oh shit, oh crap, he dashes about before cowering under the skip heap. It's the rain. Holy shit! No wonder cats hate being wet, that's horrible. It's the raindrops, pulling at his fur, making it matt and stick together, which in turn pulls at his skin. He wonders if it felt so wrong because of how terrible it felt to have things pass through him as a ghost, but when he pokes a paw at his shelter, he does really seem to be solid now. 

Ah fuck, he should have taken shelter, better shelter than this, when he had had the chance. He just hadn't realised, hadn't thought, and just wanted to get out of it as quick as possible. Not that George was necessarily going to let him in- like this. They got along well enough as humans, or at least he likes to think they do.

The thought amuses him as he hides his body under planks of wood that might have once been a bookshelf. That's the only thing to amuse him in this situation, with how dark and threatening those clouds were he's sure he's really in for it. A storm that will be terrible, with lots and lots of violent rain, that is sure to find him. 

"What out here in the rain?" A familiar accent shouts over the wind. 

Oh dear lord, if the guard is reporting to George, maybe George will rescue him. He sticks his head out, fearful of any backsplash as he looks about and indeed! That lovely Scouser is headed right towards him, a huge black umbrella sheltering him. He dares not stick a toe out to that watery warzone and instead meows, as loudly and as pathetically as he can. 

The muted sound of heavy raindrops on the fabric cover him as George leans right over the mess. Paul dares to peak out a little, he can't help the terror that Geo will yank back the brolly and leave him to suffer although he has no good reason to think that. Just paranoid from how terrible and unpleasant his first and only experience with getting his fur wet was. 

George ditters for a only a moment but Paul knows his friend well enough to see it happening. But then he lowers a hand, Paul is all ready to jump on, when he is picked up by his chest. OW! He lets his displeasure be known not just by meowing but scratching, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to raise the skin. 

"You blighter!" George cursed but he also let Paul reposition himself so his organs weren't being squished. Alright, that wasn't very nice of him, especially as Geo was doing him a favor and sheltering him from the rain. Maybe he was getting cat instincts, or maybe he'd spend so much time with John his prick-like tendencies were rubbing off on him. Surely that wasn't the kind of rubbing off the fans dream of between McLennon. 

Still despite Paul's scratch, Geo brought him home under his umbrella, honestly it was so nice it must have been a gift, probably from Brian. It was big enough to easily fit two people, strong enough to stand in the whistling wind of this storm, and had a lovely wooden handled that might well have been mahogany. It definitely seemed like the kind of thing Brian would have.

But of course what was most important was that it sheltered him completely from the rain. As small as his cat body is, it isn't so tiny that a single of George's hands can wrap him completely, but even with the whistling wind, the rain isn't horizontal, at least not yet. And so here under its dome he is safe and dry, his fur feels not too dissimilar from the hair of his human head if not for the fact it was everywhere.

Paul just closes his tiny kitten eyes, he shouldn't be tired he just work up an hour ago but he feels worn out. Too much excitement. And this is to... tranquil. The pitter-patter of the rain on the umbrella, the steady rocking of George's steps, and the warmth of the man's hand seeping through his fur. It is all lulling him, although thankful not all the way, into sleep by the time George makes it back from the far edge of his property and into the his home. 

George stands in the threshold of his door, looking around but there was no one. Not his wife, not the guard. He sighs as he carefully juggles Paul in one hand and brolly in the other as he opens the door. As the handle is stiff it take quite a bit of effort but finally they are in, George using his hip to close it behind himself. Paul hadn't realized how loud the wind was but now it's obvious with the blessed quiet of George's nice house. And it is nice, not just grand but well decorated, and clearly lived in- cozy, comfortable and inviting. 

"I think Korky got rained in next door. He's always spending all his time at that girl’s school next door so he might well not be around, but if he is, I hope you'll play nice," George carefully lowers the kitten onto his coffee table, hoping foolishly if this was not secretly his band mate, for them not to bolt. 

'Hey now', Paul thinks, 'who said I would be the problem of the two of us?' His desired expression must translate well for George huffs a laugh as he can finally close the umbrella with his now free hand. But then- the terrible traitor- he shakes the umbrella! Water droplets are sprayed everywhere, even landing in congealing messes on his fur. 'Fuck you', Paul cursed as he yowled loudly and dove for cover. 

His tiny body easily fit in the large gap under the couch. He rubs himself against the carpet, hoping to somehow towel himself off but he is pretty sure he is just making it worse. He is in fact just pushing the water through his double coats and into the one underneath. Bah, terrible, horrible, no good. Paul would swear if he could.

"Ah fuck," George sighs as he realise that his newest charge is not where he left him. "Here, kitty kitty," George clicks with his tongue. Paul hadn't thought about it, but now he realises, that with his new cat ears, it's rather different than his human ones. While his ability to understand English has remained, his hearing of it has not stayed the same. The higher baby voice and the clicking are far easier for him to pick up on.

Paul politely sticks his head out from under the couch, George is really doing him a favor there's no need to be a dick about it, it just- no water. George has wandered further into his living room, calling out, and looking for him in completely the wrong direction. Paul's not going to lie, it's amusing especially after all that's happened this morning. Still, he calls out, meowing out his position as he slides himself out from under the couch, his bones feel like little more than floating tea leaves that can easily bend in his meat suit.

"Ah, there you are little buddy," George approaches slowly as though concerned Paul will bolt for it, but why would he, it's warm and safe here, to say nothing of Paul really being a human. When close he slowly lowers himself to his knees and extends a closed hand. Paul isn't sure what to do with his but almost as instinctively as he landed on his feet so too does he sniff it. Cigarettes and weed, the latter so faintly that he must not have smoked some today, sweat, cologne, an ink magazine, and some kind of food. Clearly nothing to cause alarm or raise any of his hackles. Whatever those would be, but he thinks it would probably be if he smelt Korky. 

"There now, are you gonna be good for me," Paul huffs at this comment, like he isn't always good and lets George warm a hand around him. Unlike last time, George is mindful that he's just a kitten and without the umbrella to make it more difficult, he easily but delicately scoops up Paul to place in his palm. Paul hadn't put any thought into it before, but somehow he's not surprised by George's gentleness. He's always been a kind lad. 

Kinder than the others, he thinks to himself. Maybe that's uncharitable, but he doesn't think he could be in better hands that George's. It's true that John can be soft under that rough exterior but his temper and aggression are very real. Ringo is less mean than John but not particularly considerate, just a little more absent minded bordering on thoughtless. But George- he really can care about people.

And now Paul is that person. Well, he likes to think that as his bandmate he always is, and certainly when it comes to the press George will go to bat for him, the four of them perfectly understand that they are in the trenches together and must hold the line. But he doesn't think he's ever just had George's whole attention like this before, and it's nice, nice and sweet. 

He feels treasured, which is perhaps very vain, but certainly enjoyable all the same. George pets Paul with a soft touch, stroking his fur in a delightful way. Paul can easily imagine why they purr when pet like this. "Please, don't do that again," George asks of him softly as he cradles him against his chest. 

'No promises,' Paul thinks to himself as he enjoys the caresses, 'If you wet me again, all bets are off.' He- He hadn't realized he was cold until the heat is sinking back into his bones. Not only is there no more wind here, but there is George's body heat, warming him nicely. George makes his way upstairs to a study where he sprawls on a couch. "Well I was gonna watch some telly but with the storm, I might as well get some work done." 

He looks down at Paul, as though he really sees him, as though he is really a person and not anything lesser as he speaks next, "If it's too much noise, let me know, and I'll just read a book or something." While Paul would like to crack a joke about the 'or something' referring to crocheting, he's actually very touched. That is thoughtful and considerate of George, far better than Paul would treat him. He tries to make it clear through his body language how down he is for that, laying down and stretching himself onto George's chest.

The guitarist laughs as he pats him, reaching across for- appropriately- his guitar. Oh is he going to practice or to rehearse? At his level Paul doesn't even do scales anymore and George is way better than him, or maybe that's because George puts more work into it. Maybe he's just going to be playing their new songs from the new album to get use to them. 

But instead Paul sits there in stunned silence as George plays some chords he doesn't know, a new melody, a new song, a song George is writing. Well, of course, Paul tries to scrape his jaw of floor, of course George must be writing songs, or else where would they come from. When George showed up with 'Don't Bother Me,' it hadn't just been entertaining because of the explicitly pissy lyrics, but musically. It had been a good song. It's just... there hadn't been a song since then, in the two albums since then. Just Paul and John wringing themselves absolutely ragged to please the label. 

And here George is with another song. A good one too! And that cheeky bugger hadn't said anything to them. It would be a real weight off their shoulders if they had to write even one song less. He really should have said something, but maybe he was concerned, concerned he wasn't going to finish it, concerned it wasn't going to be good enough. But then if that was the case, Paul would help. He helped John all the time with his work, why would this be any different?

But even as Paul thinks this, he knows it isn't true. He's never had the same connection with John as he has with George, it's not fair, but it's true. Sometimes like is that, as terrible as it is, it just isn't fair. Much like how Paul only fourteen years with his mum while Geo has twenty-one and counting. Still he sighs as he sits his kitten body back down. George isn't actually that comfortable, he could do with some fattening up, Paul is pretty sure those are ribs he's feeling.

When he gets his body back, they'll have to write songs together. Here he has such a thoughtful, caring, considerate and talented band member and Paul is looking right through him. Just like people were this morning. And Paul remembers all too clearly how uncomfortable it felt to have strangers bodies pass right through him, like he didn't even exist. No, no more of that.

**Author's Note:**

> If people want there can be a slash sequel 
> 
> As for the title, that joke was good enough for one fandom, it's good enough for two


End file.
